Single Daddy Scot (Hot Scots)

No. Hell no, and fuck no. Please don’t offer to step in. I can’t be that desperate yet. Strangely, Hansel and Gretel spring to mind, me as the woodcutter coming to free Louis from her candy bejewelled house. She’d probably insist I wear leather lederhosen and swing a massive phallic axe. And she’d have her usual red-painted talons and dress in a tiny frock and cape while wearing her hair in pigtails. This weirdly erotic scenario tells me I probably need to get laid.

But no. Still no. Hell no, and fuck no. I’m not letting her look after Louis, and I’m not paying her with gratitude sex. Though, after my month-long abstinence, I’m not sure which of us would be more grateful.

‘I’m sorry, what?’ Watching her mouth move, I’d totally zoned out. Was I watching her mouth or her cleavage? Mouth, I think in relief as words begin to rotate around my brain. Help. Au pair.

Jax folds her arms under her amply enhanced cleavage. ‘If you don’t mind me saying so, babe, you look like total shit.’

‘Thanks,’ I deliver with a rueful chuckle.

‘You weren’t even following what I was saying, were you?’ Like a bunny in a pair of high beams, I’m caught, though offer a weak shrug. ‘It’s okay. I remember those days. The lack of sleep really is a killer. You know, I once made Mr Alescio’s morning porridge with breast milk, I was so knackered all of the time. And of course, he didn’t help. Not one bit. But I bet you’re not like that. I bet you’re a great dad.’

‘I wouldn’t say that,’ I reply, rubbing a hand across the back of my head.

‘You just need some help, that’s all.’

‘Look, Jax. I appreciate . . .’ I shake my head as though it might reenergise my brain. How to say no chance but thanks without offending her.

‘And my Raphaela would be a godsend for you and the poor little mite.’

Her what? I think I’m getting a headache. Too much caffeine, maybe. And exposure to certain types of people. ‘I’m sorry, Jax, but my brain is pure mush just now. I’ve no idea what you’re saying.’

She pushes away from the door, feeding her hand into her huge purse and pulling out a slim folder.

‘Here, these are her details . . . her whaddaya call it? Her resumé? There are references and stuff at the back,’ she says, placing it and one cheek of her arse on my paper-strewn desk. ‘You’re lucky she hasn’t been snapped up yet, what with her just returning from a year in France and all.’ Her tone turns sultry, her eyes doing that slow blink thing. Not so much come-to-bed eyes as fuck-me-over-the-desk eyes. ‘She speaks the language, too. The language of love, they call it. What about you, Mac? Do you speak the language of love?’

‘Ah, no, hen. I barely speak English.’

She giggles girlishly. ‘I think you’ve got a lovely speaking voice. All deep and manly.’ Not subtle. Not subtle at all.

‘So Raphaela has just come back from France, you say?’ Picking up a sheaf of papers, I lean back in my chair and feign supreme interest in her words. ‘And she’s your . . . current au pair?’ And if so, why are you trying to foist her off on me?

‘No, she’s my daughter, silly. And she was in Paris,’ she says standing, hopefully realising I’m—politely—not interested. ‘I’m not sure why she came back.’ She shrugs in a quick, aggressive motion. ‘But I do know you can’t always get what you want, can you, Mac?’

No Jax, you really can’t.

7

Ella

I straighten my blouse, pulling the collar away from my neck. I hate first meetings. Hate how the spike of anxiety makes me break out in a cold sweat. In the mirrored walls of the elevator, it looks like I’m doing the chicken dance as I attempt to waft a little air under my arms. I hope there are no cameras in here. Satisfied there aren’t, I grimace and check my teeth for stray bits of lettuce. Again.

‘Hi, I’m Ella!’ I say to my reflection, canting my head to one side. ‘Fuck.’ The force of the word moves the lock of hair I’d left hanging, curled artfully and free from my low bun. It isn’t so much artful as lank now, especially after my Uber left me three streets away, reassuring me I was in the right place. Not.

‘Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck!’

Now that was a little less Disney and inappropriate for someone seeking a job working with small children. Not for the first time I wonder why my stepmother has gone to the trouble of setting this up for me. Other than ensuring I don’t move home. As if.

I run my hands down my thighs, straightening the wrinkles where the material has pulled tight. I’m definitely what you call between sizes right now, undoubtedly caused by too many trips to the boulangerie for a croissant aux amandes. And you can’t eat an almond croissant without un café latte or deux. It’s definitely a case of you reap what you sow. Or en Français, tu récoltes ce que tu sèmes.